


Warm Bodies

by beetle



Category: Star Trek
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:31:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the slashthedrabble prompt gblvr chose, "too darn hot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warm Bodies

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Takes place a few months into The Voyage. Pre-slash.

  
“Are you avake?”  
  
  
Leonard glares grimly at the backs of his tired eyelids, and doesn't say a thing. Hopes the kid takes that lack of reply, coupled with determinedly even breathing, as an answer--  
  
  
“Doctor McCoy?”  
  
  
\--no such luck, apparently. Not that this particular away mission's been replete with  _luck_. Well. Maybe the bad kind. “That's my name. Now shut up and go to sleep.”  
  
  
“Can't. Are you . . . cold, too?”  
  
  
“No, I'm not,” Leonard lies, as forbiddingly as possible, crossing his arms over his chest. Technically it's only half a lie. The side that's got the Ensign bracketed to the rough, curving wall of their shelter isn't cold at all. The side that's exposed to this planetoid's thin, dry, cold atmosphere is another story.  
  
  
 _Note to self_ , he thinks, with serene conviction, tucking in on himself as much as he can while still laying flat on his back, so . . . not at all.  _When rescued by Enterprise, murder Jim Kirk. Murder him a lot._  
  
  
It's not the first time he's made that mental note, but this'll damn sure be the time he follows through, if the kid doesn't just take a hint and let him be half-frozen in  _peace_. . . .  
  
  
“Do you think Mr. Scott vill be able to get through the theta fluctuations to pin-point us, then beam us out? Or maybe send a shuttle-craft?”  
  
  
“Before or after we've kicked off from exposure?”  
  
  
Silence at last, but for the scouring, idiot-yammer of the wind. It's what Leonard wanted, but . . . not quite this way. Not when, in the close quarters of their dubious shelter, he can feel the kid shaking hard enough to make the air between them vibrate.  
  
  
No . . . not this way.  
  
  
It's just so goddamned easy to forget the kid's only seventeen. Though even if he were twice that, if any situation calls for a little a bit of panic--and the reassurance of a superior--then being stranded on this barren, rocky graveyard certainly does.  
  
  
Hell, Leonard almost wishes  _Spock_  were here. That Vulcan brand of dry condescension  _would_  be comforting, about now. Or at least distracting.  
  
  
“Look, Ensign, I . . . apologize. I know we haven't been crew-mates long, but there's one thing you should know about me, and it's that I can  _unintentionally_  be an asshole, sometimes--”  
  
  
“ _Only_  sometimes, then?” The kid huffs, and Leonard can hear him scooting away, closer to the wall. Not that there's far to scoot. The overhang they're sheltering under surrounds them on three, uneven sides, and Leonard--moved by some vague, unconscious notion of chivalry--had all but shoved the kid under first, leaving himself the worst of the wind and the cold.  
  
  
And the occasional faceful of wind-tossed dust and grit.  
  
  
“Okay. Maybe I deserved that one.” Ain't no maybe about it, but still. “Twice is insubordination, though, Ensign Chekov. We clear?”  
  
  
“As crystal. Sir.”  
  
  
And here Leonard'd been hoping the temperature wouldn't drop anymore.  
  
  
He sighs. It's not at all difficult to imagine those big blue eyes gazing at him reprovingly. “You still cold?”  
  
  
The ensign takes so long to answer, Leonard realizes just how stupid the question is--realizes the kid realizes, too, and is struggling not to say something . . . insubordinate. “Yes, sir. Still cold.”  
  
  
Leonard snorts. “I thought you were Russian.”  
  
  
“I--” that silence is the sound of perfect white teeth being ground together, and Leonard finds himself suddenly liking this kid more. “I  _am_  Russian. Sir. But that does not mean I am polar bear who loves to freeze! I  _hate_  being so cold!”  
  
  
“Duly noted.” The kid really  _does_  sound miserable. Leonard doesn't like being cold either, but knows he'd hate it a lot worse were they stranded in heat of equal intensity, and if humidity replaced this ceaseless, cutting wind. “Just try and think warm thoughts. Cocoa. Brandy. Hot toddies . . . five alarm blue bonnet chili. And cheese-fries for dippin'--”  
  
  
“Thank you, sir--now I am  _hungry_ , too!” the kid snarks, sounding pissy and slightly hysterical.  
  
  
 _Must be the cold. And the stress. Maybe I should--_  “Now, hey!” Leonard exclaims, eyes flying open when the kid rolls over and half on top of him like he's a body pillow. There's little enough light to see by. This planetoid has no satellites, and the solar system itself few neighboring stars. Stars the kid's curly head blocks out for a few moments before dropping to Leonard's chest. He shifts around some more, until his cool breaths tickle Leonard's neck.  
  
  
His hair smells nice, if a bit dusty.  
  
  
“Not varm thoughts, Doctor. Varm  _bodies_ ,” he whispers, pulling Leonard's arm around his shoulders. “There. Much more effective to keep from freezing to death, yes?”  
  
  
 _Oh, why me? Why_  jailbait? “It's not  _that_  cold, Ensign! The sun'll be up in five hours!”  
  
  
“Yes, it vill,” the kid puffs against his neck, and Leonard nearly jumps when surprisingly warm lips brush his skin once. Then again. “Good-night, sir.”  
  
  
“I--I--” he shoves the kid's shoulder. Tries to pry him off without touching him more than necessary. No dice. “Goddamnit, get  _off_ me, Ensign.”  
  
  
“Nyet.”  
  
  
“I mean it!”  
  
  
No answer, but for the kid  _snuggling_  against him and sighing almost contentedly. The little bastard.  
  
  
Knowing he's all sizzle and no steak, Leonard grumbles. “Remember that insubordination I warned you about, Ensign?”  
  
  
The kid yawns, and Leonard suppresses a shiver. “Do not be illogical, Doctor.” Then, before Leonard stops spluttering, the kid groans low in his throat, as innocently sybaritic and sensual a sound as Leonard's ever heard. Suddenly, he's not nearly as chilly as he was. “Oh, you are so  _varm_!”  
  
  
“Yeah, and you're  _not_.” The ensign is, in fact, like a chunk of living ice. Leonard scowls up at the distant stars and lets himself be shifted and squirmed against. Steadfastly thinks of nothing, and more nothing, and nothing but nothing. Even when the kid's hand settles low on his stomach, sweeping up and down like Leonard's a big cat . . . but never quite dipping low enough. Not that that's a bad thing, what with the ensign being both a minor and a subordinate. What with Leonard sporting the most inconveniently-timed erection in the  _entire_  universe.  
  
  
He reminds himself that just as there's a thin line between conservation of energy and hypothermia, there's a thinner line between opportunist and manipulative sleazebag. “Goddamnit, quit squirmin' around! As soon as the sun comes up, you're on your own, heat-wise, y'hear?”  
  
  
“Aye, sir. I hear.” The kid shakes again--but like he might be laughing instead of freezing. The tip of his nose is a cold-but-slowly-warming little point on Leonard's neck. The chill is quickly leaching away from the rest of him, too, and soon. . . .  
  
  
“Great. Now  _I'm_  too goddamn  _hot_!” Leonard mutters quietly into the ensign's nice-smelling hair. The only reply he gets is deep, slow breathing.  
  
  
The kid's fast asleep.  
  



	2. Warm Bodies II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See first chapter for summary.

A sulfur-yellow dawn is tickling the sky before he finally,  _finally_  starts to drift off from sheer exhaustion.  
  
  
In his arms, the very thing that'd kept him awake throughout this planetoid's admittedly short night sleeps on innocently. Is completely unaware that his sole purpose in this universe is to make Leonard McCoy feel like a dirty old man, and that so far? It's mission accomplished.  
  
  
 _Yeah, yeah, filthy, scheming pervert, blah-blah,_  Leonard thinks tiredly, but after a whole night of berating himself while willing away the most will-resistant erection ever sported by man or beast, he's reached a comfortable plateau of self-loathing. One that'll allow him at least a modicum of sleep, if not self-respect.  
  
  
As expected, his dreams aren't filled with starshine and cotton-candy, either. (In one of them, he's in Sickbay, trying to instruct his staff, who suddenly consist of Jim, Scotty, and Spock, on proper Sickbay procedure during a medical emergency. The whole thing is a shambles from the start, with Jim shoving any piece of equipment not bolted down into his pants, and waggling his eyebrows at all and sundry, asking:  _is this a cortical scanner in my pants, or am I just happy to see you guys? Is this a dermal regenerator in my pants, or am I just happy to see you guys. . . .?_  
  
  
And Scotty and Spock keep cackling at and trying to pull rank on Jim, respectively. At some point, Dream-Leonard sits on a bio-bed and starts to weep, while one grown man shoves tricorders down his pants, another starts breaking down medical equipment and trying to build a warp drive for the Sickbay . . . and the third calls them all illogical and relieves them of duty.  
  
  
Really, just about the worst dream ever. But he'll thankfully never remember it.)  
  
  
But when he wakes up--what feels like minutes after closing his eyes, but is likely hours, judging by how much brighter that baleful sulfur-glow atmosphere is--it's to a warm body pressed against his side (a warmer-still erection rocking against his thigh) and a handjob. The first of either he's gotten since before the mission started, and it's . . . probably not been going on that long, but he's already on the verge of coming.  
  
  
Something the hand--surely the best goddamn hand  _ever_ , bestower of unexpected hand _jobs_ \--knows, from the way it picks up speed without losing any of that glorious forcefulness.  
  
  
Blue eyes appear over his own, wide and round in a pale-dusty face, and everything comes crashing back: the away mission, the theta-fluctuations, being stranded, the ensign . . . God, the jailbait ensign who may possibly be giving him the best handjob he's ever had, if only because it's the first in . . . nearly a year.  
  
  
There ain't nothing like space enough to be arching up into that touch, but he does, making the most embarrassingly needy noise he's ever heard, and the kid smiles. Smiles and kisses the corner of his mouth. It's a rather sweet kiss, but also kinda like a dash of cold water to the face, and Leonard puts his hand on the ensign's wrist, but can't quite grab it or remove it.  
  
  
“Ensign, this is--”  _wrong? Awful? Hah! ”Christ_ , we can't do this. You gotta stop.”  
  
  
If anything, that surprisingly firm hand tightens and quickens, and the ensign's thumb comes into play, temporarily turning the overhang and atmosphere into a firework-filled sky. Leonard gasps and shakes. Nearly comes, but somehow manages not to.  
  
  
“No.”  
  
  
“ _No_?!” he demands hoarsely, torn almost evenly between amusement and anger (and relief, but there's no way Leonard's going to be admitting  _that_  to anyone, even himself), Leonard tries to shove the ensign away (pretty half-heartedly), but the kid shifts and maneuvers till he's half-pinning Leonard, still stroking him off, still humping his thigh--harder, if anything. He nuzzles Leonard's cheek and kisses it.  
  
  
“That's right.  _No_.” If Leonard wasn't busy biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut, trying to back away from the brink, he'd wonder where the scared, uncertain kid of the previous night had gone, and who the  _hell_  this is taking his place. “I have had a rewelation: I _vant_  you. Clearly, you vant  _me_ , too. So I'm not going to vait forever for you to make the first move, even assuming you ever vould, giwen the difference in our respective ranks and ages.”  
  
  
Leonard blinks.  _He_  wasn't this articulate when he was seventeen and feeling someone up. Hell, even now, he's barely able to string coherent thoughts together. Life really isn't fair, not at all. “Yeah, why--oh,  _Christ_ \--wait for somethin' that'd never happen, when you could just wait for me to fall asleep, then perform a sexual act on me without my consent? That's some interesting logic, kid.”  
  
  
“Is that vhat I'm doing?” the ensign asks softly, his hand slowing. Stopping. Leaving. He even stops grinding and thrusting against Leonard's thigh. And Leonard wishes he could take back his own disappointed little sigh when it does. But the cold air doesn't feel nearly as good as the ensign's hand, and there ain't no hiding that. “Dr. McCoy? You v-vill please look me in the eye vhen you call me a rapist.”  
  
  
“Hey--now, I'm not calling you a rapist!” Leonard opens his eyes just in time to catch a flicker of triumph in those blue eyes. Not smug, exactly. But definitely relieved. Then the eyes get closer, and the ensign's uneven breath puffs against Leonard's lips and he has to repress (and repress, and repress) an intense urge to kiss the kid.  
  
  
“That, at least, is something.” And so much for repressing that urge, because the kid isn't living under any such strictures, and kisses Leonard. Not as chastely as before, but not deeply either. Just enough to make Leonard follow him when he pulls away.  
  
  
There's that triumphant look again. Leonard sighs and lets his head thunk back down to the ground. “Listen, Ensign--”  
  
  
“I prefer Pavel. Please call me Pavel?”  
  
  
“ _No_ , I'm not gonna call you--fine, fine.  _Pavel_ ,” he says ungraciously when the kid  _pouts_  at him. He gets that big, big smile in return, and the ensign kisses him again. Not like before, no. This kiss is sloppy, enthusiastic, and damned good. There's plenty of tongue (which Leonard likes) and the kid seems to be one of those people who holds whole conversations with his kisses, and this conversation? Wicked as all get-out, since he tends to punctuate his kisses by squeezing and tugging on Leonard's balls not at  _all_ gently.  
  
  
 _I'm supposed to say no to_ this? _Really? How? I ain't a saint--ain't made of stone, either. And he's . . . Christ, I dunno_ what _he is. . . ._  
  
  
“I really like it vhen you call me Pavel,” the ensign murmurs huskily when the kiss ends due to lack of oxygen. He leans his forehead against Leonard's. “That vas  _such_  a nice kiss.”  
  
  
“Wasn't a damned thing  _nice_  about it . . . but it  _was_  pretty amazin',” Leonard admits with another sigh. He hasn't yet figured out how this is all Jim's fault, but then he hasn't had his morning coffee yet, either. “Hot, wrong, illegal,  _immoral_ , and amazin'.”  
  
  
“Not illegal. Sewenteen is the age of consent in the Federation. Plus, I am legally an adult, and have been since graduation. Vhat happens betveen two consenting adults isn't immoral or wrong. Vhich is assuming that I'm  _not_  forcing you into non-consensual sex vith me?”  
  
  
“Look, I'm sorry about the . . . implying you might be a rapist, okay? I apologize, so don't keep bringing it up,” Leonard grumbles, but it turns into another gasp as the ensign's fingers slip behind his balls, stroking pretty insistently. It doesn't help that Leonard's left leg--the un-pinned leg--is inching up, and further away from his right because clearly, his own body has it in for him. “Jesus, Pavel, whaddaya want from me?”  
  
  
“I vant to make you come.” Interspersed with quick, teasing kisses, but he lets Leonard drag his hand up, up, and away. For about five seconds.  
  
  
“Yeah, I picked up on  _that_  part, but . . . say we do this--and this is only a hypothetical--what then?”  
  
  
The ensign  _hmms_ , his brow furrowing for just a moment before it clears, and he smiles like a damned sunrise. “Then,  _you_  make  _me_ come.”  
  
  
Leonard rolls his eyes, remembering that there's a reason why thirty-four year olds don't have sex with seventeen year olds, ethical and legal issues aside. “Uh-huh, we're obviously having two different conversations, here, and getting goddamned _nowhere_ \--get  _off_  me, Ensign Chekov.” He shoves the kid's hand away again, but the hand takes evasive maneuvers and wraps around his cock like it'd never been anywhere else. Picks up right where it left off, taking names, but no prisoners.  
  
  
( _What the hell do they _teach_  in those genius-mill academies? Just mathematics and handjobs, apparently._ Which is a truly disturbing thought, but not disturbing enough to detract from his body's very urgent SOSes.)  
  
  
“Vhen ve get back to Enterprise, I vant you to suck my cock,” the ensign whispers, his lips tickling Leonard's. “And I vant to suck yours. I vant to spend however long they give us to recover from our harrowing adwenture, having sex vith you in your qvarters. Vhen ve return to duty, I vould like to have sex in your office vhenever our lunch hours coincide. I vould like to be your lover.” The ensign looks into his eyes again, his own somber. “And I vould like for you to touch me, now. Please touch me, Dr. McCoy.”  
  
  
What saint could stand up against that? Could resist . . .  _this_?  
  
  
Leonard, as has been driven home to him many times in the past twelve hours, is certainly  _not_  a saint. He's just a man, and so, by the standards of their respective cultures and Federation law, is Pavel Chekov.   
  
  
“God, you fight dirty--lift up a little. And it's Leonard,” Leonard says angrily, though the incandescent smile he gets when the ensign shifts around and lifts up is the kind of thing even his anger can't stand against for long.  
  
  
He undoes the ensign's fly with one hand (a trick he's been doing since before the ensign was born), burrowing impatiently past underwear for a surprising handful of hot, damp cock (also something he's been doing since before the ensign was born--and rather than being a deterrent, this thought is a bit of a turn on).  
  
  
The ensign groans, low and long, his entire body shaking as he pushes into Leonard's fist. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, breathing quick and light. The forceful, wonderful rhythm of his hand stutters, falters, but keeps on. Not that Leonard needs much at this point. Neither of them do, it seems. They haven't any coordination at this point. Leonard's body is twitching and hitching spasmodically under the ensign's unpredictable, break-neck pace. And the ensign is kissing him like a drowning man searching for oxygen, his tongue thrusting intently, frequently, but completely out of time with his cock. Pretty soon, the kisses are just panting . . . and the occasional lick.   
  
  
“I am going to come,” he announces calmly, for all that his voice is shaking. His hips are a quart short of any rhythm, and he's just driving into Leonard's fist faster and harder till he closes his eyes and comes, howling like some kind of animal. His face is contorted into something that's pained, ecstatic, and  _fierce_ , and it's just . . . it's--  
  
  
“--holy  _God_ , that's--”  _possibly the hottest thing I've ever seen_  he means to say, but the ensign's hand tightens around him almost to the point of agony, and damned if that doesn't do it. There's just no articulating when one's cognitive processes are being eclipsed by a freight train of an orgasm. All Leonard can do is come and come . . . and come some more, because it really has been a long time since he tangoed with anyone other than Rosy Palm and her five sisters.  
  
  
If he  _could_  articulate, or even just think, he'd reassure himself and the ensign that this orgasm only feels like it's the best because it's the most recent. That in the moment,  _every_  orgasm feels like the firstbestlastonly, not just the ones given by bossy Russian teenagers or surly, lonely doctors.  
  
  
And he'd also make it clear that the chance, however slight, that this damned place might become their graveyard is part of what's making this whole business seem much more intense than it normally would. Once they're back on Enterprise, once everything's back in its perspective, they'll surely go back to not having two words to say to each other in the turbo-lift. Forget about attempting to turn this incredible, intense, ungodly-amazing-yet-surely-a-fluke one night stand into something  _more_. . . .  
  
  
Surely, that's how it'll go.  
  
  
Afterward, both limp and wrung out like old dishtowels, they just lay there quietly, Leonard staring up at the ceiling of the overhang. Then at the sky, when his eyes tire of that. In his arms--face tucked into the curve of neck and shoulder and snuggled against him in a much more intimate version of of last night's exercise in conservation-of-heat-slash-sheer-fucking-torture--the ensign's breathing evenly, deeply, his hand still on Leonard's cock.  
  
  
For that matter, Leonard's own hand is still on the ensign's cock.  
  
  
 _We're gonna wind up glued together like this, and this's exactly how Enterprise'll beam us aboard,_  he thinks, but doesn't say. There ain't much he holds sacred, but afterglow is definitely near the top of a very short list. Whatever worries the future brings, such as whether or not the theta fluctuations will clear up before they really  _do_  die of exposure . . . these are no match for seratonin and endorphins. For the boneless, trusting, possessive way (Leonard isn't exactly certain how he feels about this) the ensign is sprawled on him.  
  
  
 _Though we oughta at least look for a better shelter, while the sun's still up. A shelter where we could oh, say, sit up without concussing ourselves. . . ._  
  
  
“Hey, Ensign?” Leonard turns his head till he's got a faceful of curls. They're damp, but still fluffy, still nice-smelling. Still . . . Leonard shakes the ensign's shoulder. “Uh, Pavel?”  
  
  
“ _Da_ , Leonard, that is my name. Now shut up, and go to sleep,” is the familiar, yawning reply.


End file.
